16 The Bad Thing

I'm guessing we've all felt like "the bad thing" at one point or another. 

We've been through something awful, unbearable. And we start to share about it with others. So we start to talk about it. And then suddenly we can't stop. 

And then we feel even worse, like it's too much, like we are too much. Does anyone else really want to heard about this? Maybe this is too much. Maybe I'm too much. (p 92) 

Perhaps our instinct to pull ourselves out of this rut is to think positive, pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, look on the bright side. 

But maybe there's more to it than that. 

Kate and Jessica write, "Our faith is the promise that we will learn something about a great mystery, how we can be loved and saved and changed by a God who shows us what it means to be human. It is beautiful and terrible, but it is not 'positive'" (p 93).  

In fact, "Seeing pain up close [your pain or someone else's] can give you an incredible experience of awe. It's like seeing a garment turned inside out and all the rough seams are showing. You see someone's absolute humanity shine through all the pain, and that vulnerability makes them more - not less - beloved" (pp 93-94). 

These are words to cling to when life snaps, grief surprises us, when we start to feel like we're the bad thing. 

But we are not the bad thing - "we are simply living our beautiful, terrible days" (p 94). There's nothing shame full or embarrassing about that. 

There are times when I, with my seizures, feel like "the bad thing." I suspect that people pity me when I ask for a ride somewhere because I haven't been seizure-free for six months yet and can't drive according to Ohio state law. Or seeing me makes them think, "Wow, if it could happen to her, it could happen to me." Or worst of all, being pitied by people. 

And so I am grateful for the first part of "A Blessing for When You Feel Like the Bad Thing" -- maybe these words will be a balm to your heart like they are to mine: 

Blessed are you who feel like the bad thing. You are everyone's reminder of their frailty, of life's cruelty. Your chronic pain or depression or regular scans remind those around you that life isn't as fair or easy as they had hoped. 

...

But, dear one, blessed are you because you are not the bad thing. Your illness or grief or despair or addiction is not too much. It's just your humanity showing" (p 95). 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Check out the "A Good Enough Step" on page 97: 

Do you know someone with a chronic illness or an autoimmune disease like fibromyalgia or lupus? Someone going through cancer treatments? Someone weighed down by the burden of depression? 

How can you practically remind them they are not "the bad thing?" Write them a note? Pray for them? Offer to do something concrete for them that is simple for you but a burden for them? Do something that will remind them they are not alone - that they are seen and loved even in the midst of the struggle. 

15 The Tragedy Olympics

I was talking to a colleague the other day who was inquiring about my health, specifically about my seizures. I gave a quick update (I'm going on 4 months seizure-free!) and offhandedly mentioned that as I continue to learn more about Epilepsy, I realize that for many people it causes a much greater disruption in their lives than it does in mine. 

And my colleague was quick to respond that she doesn't believe in comparative suffering. Since I wasn't sure exactly what she meant by that, I decided I would make some acquiescing noises and move on to the reason for the phone call. 

I didn't think about that conversation after it was over UNTIL reading today's Good Enough devotional about "The Tragedy Olympics." Then I started Googling "comparative suffering." 

And from what I can tell (at least from this), the benefit of looking at your suffering in the larger context of the suffering of others is that it can help to provide some perspective. Which is what I think I was doing. 

But there are many dangers inherent with comparing your suffering to the suffering of others, including the fact that comparing yourself with others in any sense generally is a bad idea and especially when it comes to suffering. But also it can lead you to judge the suffering of others or deny the depth of your own suffering when you find yourself surrounded by someone whose suffering is "worse" than yours. 

This is one of the shorter entries in the book, and I appreciate that they don't try to resolve or explain away the compulsion to compare our suffering to others. 

I also appreciate their observation that "When people enter the Tragedy Olympics, they don't always realize that it's not actually a game. It's just life, and we are all, for better or worse, players who need each other more than we need an award" (p 88). 

I also drew a big circle around the first stanza of their "A Blessing for When You Realize Everyone is Struggling" on p 89 ... 

"Blessed are you who have realized that life is hard. And it's hard for everyone. Your awareness came at a cost. You lost something you can't get back. ... Blessed are all of us who struggle, for we are in good company, and we'll never walk alone." 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Do you compare your suffering to that of others? Do you know someone who does? Have you tried to have a conversation like this about how unhelpful it is? Did it, by some miracle, actually work? 

When was it that you discovered that life is hard and that it's hard for everyone? How did that change your attitude, your outlook on life, and/or how you treat other people?

Ponder this: We all want our troubles to mean something, to have stature and be validated - but we gain nothing by pitting our woes against another's. Pain should unite us, as fellow sufferers, as fellow humans. Regardless of who feels worse, we need each other. 

 

14 For the Exiles

Having been Presbyterian since the womb (and hailing from a long line of male Presbyterian pastors on my mom's side of the family), I don't know much about the Saints that my Episcopalian and Catholic friends esteem. 

But I do appreciate Kate and Jessica's story about Saint Rose (from the 13th century) who was rejected by the religious order she so desperately wanted to join and now is remembered each year in her hometown in Italy with a procession that honors "the memory of people who don't fit in. She's known as the saint of exiles. Wanderers. Those refused hospitality by religious communities" (pp 79-80). 

I'm not sure when exactly this started to happen, but I have developed a very tender heart toward those who feel like exiles or outcasts. Especially who feel like exiles and outcasts from the church. 

Which is weird because my experience of church (for the most part) is one of being valued and honored. 

In a lot of ways, I'm a quintessential church person who probably makes some non-church people roll their eyes -- I once had a friend who would call me Luke Skywalker and refer to herself as Darth Vader! She meant it as a joke, but we both knew she felt there was some truth under the joking.   

That's part of who God designed me to be; I can't do much about that.

But what I can do is leverage that part of my identity. I can study what it means to be a trustworthy person because I think exiles and outcasts don't trust the church. (And in many cases, there's very good reason for that.) 

[This is definitely going to be part of my sermon on Sun, May 8, 2022!] 

I can leverage my natural tendencies to care, be sincere, be reliable, and be (semi)competent enough to give folks a reason to give the church another chance. 

I love what Kate and Jessica say on page 80: "Part of our identities as people of faith is found in community. We are not islands, but reliant on one another to remake us, pull us toward God, and be a soft place to land." 

I can be a soft place to land when people feel God calling to them ... even if they never thought they'd be willing to give church a chance again. Or for the first time.

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Do you feel like an exile or an outcast from the church? Are you one who has been hurt by the church and while you're still on speaking terms with God, you don't care for God's children much? What would it take for you to give the Body of Christ another chance? 

On page 83 in "A Prayer for When You Don't Belong," Kate and Jessica write, You loved what the world devalued and demeaned: 'the poor, the sick, foreigners, women, those deemed unclean, the imprisoned'. Does your path regularly cross with someone the world (or the church) devalues and demeans? Is there some small way you can honor and love them without making too much of a fuss? 

13 Needing Rules at All

I'm a very good rule-follower by nature and nurture. In my formative years, I went to a conservative college that had lots of rules. And I was happy to follow those rules; it was easy to know what was right and what was wrong, what to do and what not to do. 

(At least, according to the institution what is right/should do and what was wrong/shouldn't do.) 

Even now, as I have mellowed with age and learned the beauty of a "both/and life" (instead of everything being either/or), I still make an excellent Pharisee - one who is inclined to enforce the letter of the law than the spirit of it. 

But Kate and Jessica offer a different perspective. 

"Freedom and constraint. We hunger for both. A life of faith must have room for both." (p 75) 

I think this is another return to Chapter 1 and the discussion of the Regula and chapter 8 When Good Things Become Burdens. 

So maybe now's a good time to check in, almost 2 weeks (theoretically!) into our 40(ish) days of leaving behind the pursuit of perfection and, instead, seeking CONTENTMENT. 

Are you designing a regula that fits you? Something that is manageable but not a burden? 

Or have you started adding all sorts of things or pressure to yourself so that now this has become something you dread rather than something that gives you life and joy? 

Around the end of last year, I started journaling online using Penzu. I'm definitely an analog, paper person, but I never seemed to have a journal with me when I needed it. 

(I remember my preacher grandfather would always carry around a small spiral notebook with a pen in his shirt pocket, but women's fashion, unfortunately, does not lend itself to this habit.) 

But I do always have my phone with me. So when the urge/Spirit strikes, I can whip it out and type something. And Penzu will send me an email in the evening reminding me to write an entry, then send me another email in the morning congratulating me on making it another day and what kind of a streak I'm on. 

Both of these things were incredibly helpful ... until I started to let the need to keep that streak alive (follow the rules) matter so much that as I was falling asleep at night, I would open up an entry, type a few words, then close it again. 

I followed the letter of "the law" but fell far short of the spirit. The competitor in me loves to keep that streak alive - along with my Wordle streak too! - but I know I need to balance that with a sense of grace and honesty concerning how much good that almost-empty entry is really going to do for me and my regula. 

So, in case you need to begin again, make sure you read "A Prayer for This Time of Change" on page 77: " ... Forgive my little (often very fun) rebellions that deceive me into thinking they're for my good. And protect me in this tender time of change." 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

In the "A Good Enough Step" in this entry, Kate and Jessica talk about picking a "spiritual cue" to act as a reminder or a prompt for our regula (p 78). Do you have a cue in place already? How is it working for you? Do you need to create another one? 

 

12 Right After It's Over

Perhaps it's been a while since "your life snapped at the stem," as Kate and Jessica write (p 69). Or maybe your wound is still fresh and raw. 

Depending on where you are in the healing journey, I'm not sure how helpful this chapter will be to you, but I suspect, if it doesn't speak to you know, it will. Someday. I hope it at least gives you something to hope for in the future if it feels out of reach right now. 

I know this isn't exactly the image of the tree she talks about, but I'm guessing it's pretty close:

This palm tree, as they write, "made a series of important choices" - "in a shocking act of hubris" it decides to grow sideways and then "rather impertinently, grew straight toward the sky" (pp 68-69). 

In the aftermath of our life snapping, the best we can do is survive. "Try to sleep. Remember to eat. Keep breathing" (p 69). 

And while it is SO. VERY. TEMPTING. to think we need to bounce back right away - even better than we were before life snapped! -- perhaps a better use for our time would be to linger in the moment, connecting with our humanity where it really is OK to be sad and afraid and tired and confused. 

Not to stay there, for sure, but to linger there long enough to admit those things to ourselves and to God and maybe even to a friend. And to let God and a friend sit and linger with us in that place before we "move forward" (p 71). 

Friends, these seem like especially important words for us to be reading right now -- the week that Naomi Judd died by suicide just a day before being inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame and the news of a third Division 1 female athlete's death (James Madison University's star catcher Lauren Bernett) by suicide. 

"Please, please, please, hear me say to you: You are not ruined or broken or a failure. You are simply in pain. And God is with you. This is God's great magic act, in my opinion. The more we suffer, the more we can't get away from God's insistent love (p. 70)." 

Again, maybe it's been a while since the trunk of your life snapped, or maybe the snap is still fresh and raw. 

But I still think these words are for all of us: 

"Blessed are you, starting to sense that maybe sunlight can reach you, even here. And you reach out, finding yourself in a fierce embrace. And God's voice saying: You are not the bad thing. You are not ruined. You are not broken, nor over, nor a failure, nor learning a lesson. You are my suffering one, and you are love, you are loved, you are loved" (p 72). 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

I've been thinking a lot about the Henry David Thoreau quote Kate and Jessica include at the end of this reflection: 

"Make the most of your regrets; never smother your sorrow, but tend and cherish it till it comes to have a separate and integral interest. To regret deeply is to live afresh." 

I've always heard people rather proudly say they never have any regrets. Which I guess means they just accept what happens as what happens. If you are someone who regularly says this, how would you respond to the idea of "making the most of your regrets?" 

How might cherishing our sorrows might lead to "life afresh?" Can you even wrap your mind around that, or is it just too far outside of your experience of life and loss so far?